Swan Light

by Phoebe Rowe

Be careful, other divers cautioned her. Slow down. But careful was no guarantee of safe. And slow, she’d learned, could never get her nearly as deep as she wanted.

But as she looked out the doorway to the expanse of the sea, she wished for a moment that she wasn’t here for a wreck at all, that it was just her and an ocean that would fill any space she gave it, that left no room for thoughts like the ones that had captivated her about Californian in the first place. Like how there was such a small space between being the ship that saved and the ship that slept. Like how two things could be so close together in the darkness, one bright below the stars, the other sinking slowly away from them.

“If you don’t like the weather out your front door, go look out the back.” Maybe today wouldn’t be a waste after all.

“You said this was just a weekend trip.” “It is,” Grace said. “But there’s a funny thing about weekends. There are more than one of them.”

No matter the project, this was always her favorite part. The question mark, the edge of knowing, the Schrödinger’s shipwreck of something that was only real if you proved it.

A long time ago, at her very first day of school, a teacher had asked for Clara’s name. “Clara,” she’d said, and a smile had played on his face. “Clara what?” “Vettrey,” she’d said, breathless and proud, and the teacher had laughed in her face. She knew, then, how a name that fit one person so perfectly could hang off another like old, tattered clothes.